“The late opening won’t matter,” said the former as they spread their blankets in the little wedge tent. “The head will hit the first dam to-morrow, sometime. We ought to sluice her through inside two days. Then there’s the second dam. If we have luck we’ll tie into the main drive pretty near on time. The others’ll be about as late as we are.”
“I hope so,” said Joe. “We don’t want to hang up anywhere. I suppose McCane’s drive will be out of our way?”
“Sure to —— unless he jams somewhere,” said MacNutt. “Lebret Creek is faster than the Wind and opens earlier. It’s good drivin’. He ought to be through the second dam by now.”
Lebret Creek joined the Wind above the second dam. They were then some twenty-five miles from the confluence, and four miles above the first dam.
The day broke clear and splendid. Joe and MacNutt set off down stream for the dam half an hour behind a dozen of the crew. They cut through the woods across a three-mile bend of the stream and came suddenly upon it again.
“By the G. jumping Jasper!” cried MacNutt.
The river seemed to have shrunk. Logs lay along the banks, were caught in shallows, rocked in the feeble current. As far as the eye could reach stretched the shaggy backs of the brown herd, motionless or nearly so. The ancient bed of the stream appeared as it had been before the dams were built—a flat, rocky bottom over which a foot or so of water brawled noisily and ineffectively, utterly useless from the standpoint of a logger. The drive was plugged for want of water.
A man appeared through the trees. He was running. “Dam’s gone out!” he shouted as he came within hailing distance.
Joe and the foreman looked at each other. There was no need to put the single thought into words.
“Come on,” said Joe briefly, and broke into a trot.